


And So I Tell Myself that I'll Be Strong

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John supposed that was it, then.</p>
<p>He hadn’t meant for it to go that way at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So I Tell Myself that I'll Be Strong

John supposed that was it, then.

He hadn’t meant for it to go that way at all.

*

On Monday morning, John had come down from his room at 221B tired. In the sort of daze he’d been for the last year and a half; just sortof existing. No mood, no emotions, just exhaustion and detachment. At first he had thought it was the place. He had left Baker Street for all of a week, crawling back in the dead of night to sleep in Sherlock’s bed, staying there for the entirety of the three days it took to stop smelling of Sherlock’s chemical sweetness and smoke. (For some reason no matter how long he’d quit smoking for, he always smelled slightly of cigarette smoke. Or maybe it was gun smoke. John didn’t know, and the only person who could tell him was dead.)

After that he stayed at Baker Street, left the flat only to go to Tesco and St Bart’s. (The first for groceries, and the second for … “groceries;” the first time John had opened the fridge to find only human food, he’d thrown all his eggs around the room, watching the yolk drip down the walls and picturing the blood pooling on the sidewalk, and he’d stopped being able to breathe. Molly eventually began coming by with fingers and livers and toenail clippings once every few days.)

On that Monday morning he’d come downstairs groggy, eyes barely open, navigating the stairs by feel. Had made himself some tea, sat in his armchair, stared at the empty chair across from him, like every morning for as far back as his memory went at that point. Except that the ugly leather-and-brushed-steel bahaus monstrosity across from him wasn’t empty. Flung across the back of it was an unmistakeable wool coat, navy blue with red edging on the buttonholes. John didn’t know how it got there. Perhaps he’d put it there in the night when he woke up screaming (yet again.) No, wait. He didn’t have the coat. He hadn’t seen that coat since that one June morning when he watched his life crack open against the pavement.

John shook his head, like a swimmer trying to dislodge water from his ears, that made no sense. It was here. Clearly he’d gotten it from St Bart’s at some point, and just curled up with it last night for the sake of the familiar feel and smell of it. That was it. Obviously. Yet, against his greater sense, and almost against his will, John put down his tea and went and sat on the ugly leather chair across from his, and brought the coat up to his nose. Still warm. Impossibly warm. How could it be warm? It hadn’t been worn in over a year. Had it? It still smelled like him, too. John pushed all thought from his mind and just smelled. Really smelled, indulged in the first little bit of chaos and nonsense in his life in a long time, breathing in the smoke and warmth of the fabric in his hands.

It was one of those porcelain moments that felt like they lasted an eternity, and, like porcelain, it shattered. “JOHN, WHAT’VE YOU DONE WITH MY BATHROBE? I CAN’T FIND IT.” John stood up abruptly, and the blood rushed from his head all at once. He staggered, clung to the table for support. Saw but didn’t process that there were two laptops on it now where there had originally only been one; his clunky second-hand one sat next to a sleek new brushed-aluminum one. Turned to look at the doorway to the stairs, took a moment to breathe, and had just about steadied himself into thinking it was a hallucination, and he hadn’t heard anything, when through the doorway burst an irate Sherlock Holmes, clad only in a towel.

“Ah! John, good. I need my bathrobe. I can’t think properly without it. No? Nothing? No response? Fine, no response. Be that way.” Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, with no regard for the fact that the towel around his waist was flapping everywhere, or for the fact that his (former?) flatmate was just staring at him, dumbstruck.

John: “I … I … you’re. You’re. You’re not real. You can’t be real. You can’t be real you died I checked your pulse you’re not real. Ohgod. That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve finally lost it, finally cracked, finally gone insane. She was right, my therapist was—”

Sherlock: “Shut up, John, please; you’re rambling. Your therapist is stupid and incapable, and of course I’m real. Look, see? Real enough to drink your tea. Augh. needs sugar. Now, then, John, don’t be ridiculous, and let me think.”

John had stopped breathing. He wasn’t sure any more if he was hallucinating, but he needed it to stop. He tried to will himself to walk out of the room, but none of his muscles (most notably his diaphragm) were responding. He was dimly aware that the apparition was getting up, coming towards him. That it was saying words. God, John, don’t be so thick. Obviously I’m not dead. Come on, John, breathe; I need your help with something, and you won’t be much use unconscious. Then it (the hallucination? Sherlock?) slapped him. Hard, across the face.

Sherlock: “There, now you’re with me, I need to ask you; if a man’s been poisoned with a muscle relaxant—” John punched Sherlock in the nose. His nose spurted blood. Again, in the stomach. Sherlock coughed up a bit of blood and phlegm. Sherlock continued, “yes, okay, now you’ve relieved your anger, good for you (though please don’t punch me in the stomach again; we’re a bit fragile down there at present), now can you please regain control of yourself and help me?”

Disconnected words flitted through John’s head. Fragile? Damaged? Fragile-Damaged-damaged-fragile. where? He dropped his eyes to Sherlock’s shirt, tore it open. Needed to see. Bruises. Old bruises. Green, fading. Ran his fingers over the ribs, gently, medically. Yes, ah! don’t touch there. Cracked ribs, obviously, almost healed. Nothing to worry about. Apparently Sherlock had continued talking, though the words didn’t register in John’s ears, instead intertwining with his thoughts to form a weird patchwork of sounds and neural relays.

John, barely conscious, reached up to touch Sherlock’s face, traced his fingers across skin he was medically familiar with, but no longer emotionally related to. Leaned forward. Brushed his lips against the ridiculous pink ones before him. (He’d never have dared do that if this was really Sherlock, but it wasn’t, was it? This was all in his head. … Wasn’t it? John wasn’t sure any more.) Stared. Cautiously: “You’re really real, aren’t you? You’re actually here.” Sherlock’s blue eyes stared back at him, dispassionate. Observing, cataloguing, deducing, but not feeling a thing. Not to John’s eyes. John was the feeler, the searcher, and Sherlock was the looker, the knower.

Sherlock stepped back. “Yes, John, of course I’m here, we’ve been over that. Don’t be so dreadfully dull. Alright, whatever, suit yourself, just stand there in a stupid daze. I’m going to Scotland Yard; there’s a lovely serial killer running around, and you’re being terribly boring. Join me when your brain has resumed its (unfortunately incredibly unreliable) connection to your mouth and limbs.” And with that, he collected his coat from the floor by John’s feet and stalked out.

*

When Sherlock came back (at approximately 10 PM), John was sitting in precisely the same place Sherlock had left him: On the floor in the living room, staring at the sofa. He didn’t react when Sherlock came in. “John, what’s in? I’m starving.” See, John thought disconnectedly, I knew it wasn’t the real Sherlock. The real Sherlock doesn’t eat. “John!” No response. Sherlock walked around to John, took him by the shoulders and shook him. John ignored the twinge in his bad shoulder, or it didn’t register. He just carried on staring.

Sherlock stood up and started pacing manically around the flat, muttering to himself. “Oh, alright, then, John Watson’s just gone and checked out, taken a mental holiday. Huh, metaphors. Those are fun sometimes. Interesting. So now what. Convention (and film) states slapping, but I’ve slapped him, to no avail. Bucket of cold water? No; if it doesn’t work I’d have to clean it up, and he might catch a cold. Alright. He’s stable. Breathing. Pulse appears to be fairly normal. Could just leave him ‘till he comes back round (figure of speech. interesting.), but I’m bored, hungry. Can’t be bothered to go down to the shops. So what, then. Oh. Oh, of course.” Sherlock walked back over to John, hauled him manually to his feet by his shirt front (suppressing a grunt; Sherlock Holmes never permits himself to exhibit signs of exertion), and kissed him. Gently, at first, but when John closed his eyes Sherlock decided that just wouldn’t do, and tried going about it a bit harder.

Sherlock bit John’s lower lip and John’s eyes flew open. He looked at Sherlock’s impassive face, searching, wondering. John didn’t find what he wanted, but decided, against all of his logic and common sense, to just go with the feeling. He kissed Sherlock back with everything he could muster, breathing in deeply the smell of the man who he loved and who had left him, pulse pounding and hands sweating, rolling around in the smell and taste and feel of Sherlock Holmes like a dog in heat.

Sherlock, interestingly enough, missed all of this. Emotions like these were, of his own admission, not his area, and he had thought that John just needed a good physical jump-starting, so, when John whispered “you know, I thought I hated you at first, but damn am I glad you’re back” against his chapped lips, “well,” Sherlock said, “I’m glad that’s sorted, then. It’s … nice to see you, too, John,” and he went to pull away.

John, on the other hand, wasn’t having it. “No, you daft git, you’ve missed the point. I’m not letting you go. Ever.” He entangled his hands in Sherlock’s unruly hair and pulled him back towards John. Sherlock winced, then rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, John, I have to go. I’m hungry and there’s a serial killer out there.” John ignored him, kept talking. “I’m not letting you go because every time I leave you something bad happens and I can’t take it any more. I love you. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. There, I’ve said it. They’re all right. I love you, and I knew it as soon as I saw you jump off that building.”

Sherlock gazed at him impassively. “Yes, of course you do, I knew that already.” Followed shortly thereafter, as though there was no segue required, by, “I take it this means you want to order in?”

John couldn’t help but smile resignedly. “Excellent deduction.” Sherlock disentangled himself, and walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. “Oh, and John?”

“Mm?”

“I care about you as well.”

John let out a high-pitched, slightly psychotic giggle and sat down in front of the telly. One of those horrible family drama reality shows was starting, and one of the few things could restore his sense of normalcy (if there was such a thing in his life with Sherlock) was the way Sherlock would undoubtedly scream “Of course he’s not the boy’s father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!” (And then claim to not be watching, or to care about the show.).

John supposed that everything was, in their ridiculous, insane, sort of way, all right.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, sorry, it's a bit messy and predictable, but I thought it was fun, and definitely fun to write. :3


End file.
